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Strange Pages from Family Papers

<hr /> <h3>CHAPTER XIII.ToC</h3> <h3>EXTRAORDINARY DISAPPEARANCES.</h3> <div class="centered"> <table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem chapter 1"> <tr> <td> "O Annie, It is beyond all hope, against all chance, That he who left you ten long years ago Should still be living; well, then—let me speak; I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: I cannot help you as I wish to do Unless—they say that women are so quick— Perhaps you know what I would have you know— wish you for my wife." </td> </tr> <tr> <td class="titlepoem">Enoch Arden. </td> </tr> </table></div> A glance at the agony columns of our daily newspapers, or the notice boards of police stations, it has been remarked, shows how many individuals disappear from home, from their business haunts, and from the circle of their acquaintances, and leave not the slightest trace of their whereabouts. In only too many instances, no satisfactory explanation has ever been forthcoming to account for a disappearance of this nature, and in the vast majority of cases no evidence has been discovered to prove the death of such persons. It is well known that "in France, before the Revolution, the vanishing of men almost before the eyes of their friends was so common that it scarcely excited any surprise at all. The only inquiry was, had he a beautiful wife or daughter, for in that case the explanation was easy; some one who had influence with the Government had designs upon the lady, and made interest to have her natural guardian put out of the way while those designs were being fulfilled." But, accountable as the disappearance of an individual was at such an unquiet time in French history, such a solution of the difficulty cannot be made to apply to our own country. Like other social problems, which no amount of intellectual ingenuity has been able to unravel, the reason why, at intervals, persons are missed and never found must always be regarded as an open question. Thus a marriage is recorded which took place in Lincolnshire, about the year 1750. In this instance, the wedding party adjourned after the marriage ceremony to the bridegroom's residence, and dispersed, some to ramble in the garden and others to rest in the house till the dinner hour. But the bridegroom was suddenly summoned away by a domestic, who said that a stranger wished to speak to him, and henceforward he was never seen again. All kinds of inquiries were made but to no purpose, and terrible as the dismay was of the poor bride at this inexplicable disappearance of the bridegroom, no trace could be found of him. A similar tradition hangs about an old deserted Welsh Hall, standing in a wood near Festiniog. In a similar manner, the bridegroom was asked to give audience to a stranger on his wedding day, and disappeared from the face of the earth from that moment. The bride, however, seems to have survived the shock, exceeding her three score years and ten, although, it is said, during all those years, while there was light of sun or moon to lighten the earth, she sat watching—watching at one particular window which commanded a view of the approach to the house. In short, her whole faculties, her whole mental powers, became completely absorbed in that weary process of watching, and long before she died she was childish, and only conscious of one wish—to sit in that long high window, and watch the road, along which he might come. Family romance records, from time to time, many such stories, and it was not so very long ago that a bridal party were thrown into much consternation by the non-arrival of the bridegroom. Everything was in readiness, the clergy and the choir, already vested, stood in the robing room, crimson carpets were laid down from the door to the carriages; some of the guests were at the church and others at the bride's house, when an alarm was raised by the best man that the bridegroom could nowhere be found. The bride-expectant burst into a flood of tears at this cruel disappointment, especially when the ominous news reached the church that the bridegroom's wedding suit had been found in the room, laid out ready to wear, but that there was not the slightest clue as to his whereabouts. It only remained for the bridal party to return home, and for the dejected and disconsolate bride to lay aside her veil and orange-blossoms. Sometimes, on the other hand, it is the bride who disappears at this crisis. Not many years back, an ex-lieutenant in the Royal Navy applied to a London magistrate, as he wanted to find his newly married wife. The applicant affirmed that the lady he had wedded was an actress, and that they were married at the registry office at Croydon. The magistrate asked if there had been any wedding breakfast. The applicant said "No"; they had partaken of a little luncheon and that was all. Mysterious and inexplicable as was this disappearance of a wife so shortly after marriage, it was suggested by the magistrate whether there were any rivals, but the applicant promptly replied, "No, certainly not, and that made the matter all the more incomprehensible." Of course, the magistrate could not recover the missing bride; but, remarking that the application was a very singular one, he recommended the applicant to consult the police on the matter, who replied that "he would do so, as he was really afraid that some mischief had happened to her," utterly disregarding the proposition of the magistrate as to whether the lady could not possibly have changed her mind, remarking that such a thing had occasionally happened. In the life of Dr. Raffles, an amusing story is quoted, which is somewhat to the point: "On our way from Wem to Hawkstone, we passed a house, of which the following occurrence was told: 'A young lady, the daughter of the owner of the house, was addressed by a man who, though agreeable to her, was disliked by her father. Of course, he would not consent to their union, and she determined to disappear and elope. The night was fixed, the hour came, he placed the ladder to the window, and in a few minutes she was in his arms. They mounted a double horse, and were soon at some distance from the house. After awhile the lady broke silence by saying, 'Well, you see what a proof I have given you of my affection; I hope you will make me a good husband!' "He was a surly fellow, and gruffly answered, 'Perhaps I may, and perhaps not.' "She made him no reply, but, after a few minutes' silence, she suddenly exclaimed, 'O, what shall we do? I have left my money behind me in my room!' "'Then,' said he, 'we must go and fetch it.' They were soon again at the house, the ladder was again placed, the lady remounted, while the ill-natured lover waited below. But she delayed to come, and so he gently called, 'Are you coming?' when she looked out of the window and said, 'Perhaps I may, and perhaps not,' then shut down the window, and left him to return upon the double horse alone." But, if traditionary lore is to be believed, the sudden disappearance of the bride on her wedding day has had, in more than one instance, a very romantic and tragic origin. There is the well-known story which tells how Lord Lovel married a young lady, a baron's daughter, who, on the wedding night, proposed that the guests should play at "hide-and-seek." Accordingly, the bride hid herself in an old oak chest, but the lid falling down, shut her in, for it went with a spring lock. Lord Lovel and the rest of the company sought her that night and many days in succession, but nowhere could she be found. Her strange disappearance for many years remained an unsolved mystery, but some time afterwards the fatal chest was sold, which, on being opened, was found to contain the skeleton of the long-lost bride. This popular story was made the subject of a song, entitled "The Mistletoe Bough," by Thomas Haynes Bayley, who died in 1839; and Marwell Old Hall, near Winchester, once the residence of the Seymours, and afterwards of the Dacre family, has a similar tradition attached to it. Indeed, the very chest has been preserved in the hall of Upham Rectory, having been removed from Marwell some forty years ago. The great house at Malsanger, near Basingstoke, has a story of a like nature connected with it, reminding us of that of Tony Forster in Kenilworth, and of Rogers's Ginevra: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, When a spring lock that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever." </div> </div> This story is found in many places, and the chest in which the poor bride was found is shown at Bramshill, in Hampshire, the residence of Sir John Cope. But only too frequently the young lady disappears from some preconcerted arrangement; a striking instance being that of Agnes, daughter of James Ferguson, the mechanist. While walking down the Strand with her father, she slipt her hand out of his whilst he was absorbed in thought, and he never saw her from that day, nor was anything known of the girl's fate till many years after Ferguson's death. At the time, the story of her extraordinary disappearance was matter of public comment, and all kinds of extravagant theories were started to account for it. The young lady, however, was gone, and despite the most patient search, and the most persistent inquiries, no tidings could be gained as to her whereabouts. In course of years the mystery was cleared up, and revealed a pitiable case of sin and shame. It appears that a nobleman to whom she had become known at her father's lectures took her, in the first instance, to Italy, and afterwards deserted her. In her distress, being ashamed to return home, she resolved to try the stage as a means of livelihood, and applied to Garrick, who gave her a trial on the boards, but the attempt proved a failure. She then turned her hand to authorship, but with no better success. Although reduced to the most abject poverty, she would not make herself known to her relatives, and in complete despair, and overwhelmed with a sense of her disgrace, in her last extremity she threw herself on the streets, and died in miserable beggary and wretchedness in Round Court, off the Strand. It was on her death-bed that she disclosed to the surgeon who attended her the melancholy and tragic story of her wasted life. But from the localities in which she had habitually moved, she must have many a time passed her relatives in the streets, though withheld by shame from making herself known, when they imagined her to be in some distant country, or in the grave. The strange disappearance of Lady Cathcart, on the other hand, whose fourth husband was Hugh Maguire, an officer in the Hungarian service, is an extraordinary instance of a wife being, for a long term of years, imprisoned by her own husband without any chance of escape. It seems that, soon after her last marriage, she discovered that her husband had only made her his wife with the object of possessing himself of her property, and, alarmed at the idea of losing everything, she plaited some of her jewels in her hair and others in her petticoat. But she little anticipated what was in store for her, although she had already become suspicious of her husband's intentions towards her. His plans, however, were soon executed; for one morning, under the pretence of taking her for a drive, he carried her away altogether: and when she suggested, after they had been driving some time, that they would be late for dinner, he coolly replied, "We do not dine to-day at Tewing, but at Chester, whither we are journeying." Some alarm was naturally caused, writes Sir Bernard Burke, "by her sudden disappearance, and an attorney was sent in pursuit with a writ of habeas corpus or ne exeat regno, who found the travellers at Chester, on their way to Ireland, and demanded a sight of Lady Cathcart. Colonel Maguire at once consented, but, knowing that the attorney had never seen his wife, he persuaded a woman to personate her. The attorney, in due time, was introduced to the supposed Lady Cathcart, and was asked if she accompanied Colonel Maguire to Ireland of her own free will. "Perfectly so," said the woman. Whereupon the attorney set out again for London, and the Colonel resumed his journey with Lady Cathcart to Ireland, where, on his arrival at his own house at Tempo, in Fermanagh, his wife was imprisoned for many years." During this period the Colonel was visited by the neighbouring gentry, "and it was his regular custom at dinner to send his compliments to Lady Cathcart, informing her that the company had the honour to drink her ladyship's health, and begging to know whether there was anything at table that she would like to eat? But the answer was always the same, "Lady Cathcart's compliments, and she has everything she wants." Fortunately for Lady Cathcart, Colonel Maguire died in the year 1764, when her ladyship was released, after having been locked up for twenty years, possessing, at the time of her deliverance, scarcely clothes to her back. She lost no time in hastening back to England, and found her house at Tewing in possession of a Mr. Joseph Steele, against whom she brought an act of ejectment, and, attending the assize in person, gained her case. Although she had been so cruelly treated by Colonel Maguire, his conduct does not seem to have injured her health, for she did not die till the year 1789, when she was in her ninety-eighth year. And, when eighty years of age, it is recorded that she took part in the gaieties of the Welwyn Assembly, and danced with the spirit of a girl. It may be added that although she survived Colonel Maguire twenty years, she was not tempted, after his treatment, to carry out the resolution which she had inscribed as a poesy on her wedding ring. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> If I survive I will have five.[47] </div> </div> Another disappearance and supposed imprisonment which created considerable sensation in the last century was that of Elizabeth Canning. On New Year's Day, 1753, she visited an uncle and aunt who lived at Saltpetre Bank, near Well Close Square, who saw her part of the way home as far as Houndsditch. But as no tidings were afterwards heard of her, she was advertised for, rumours having gone abroad, that she had been heard to shriek out of a hackney coach in Bishopsgate-street. Prayers, too, were offered up for her in churches and meeting-houses, but all inquiries were in vain, and it was not until the 29th of the month that the missing girl returned in a wretched condition, ill, half-starved, and half-clad. Her story was that after leaving her uncle and aunt on the 1st of January, she had been attacked by two men in great coats, who robbed, partially stripped her, and dragged her away to a house in the Hertfordshire road, where an old woman cut off her stays, and shut her up in a room in which she had been imprisoned ever since, subsisting on bread and water, and a mince pie that her assailants had overlooked in her pocket, and ultimately, she said, she had escaped through the window, tearing her ear in doing so. Her story created much sympathy for her, and steps were immediately taken to punish those who had abducted her in this outrageous manner. The girl, who was in a very weak condition, was taken to the house she had specified, one "Mother" Wells, who kept an establishment of doubtful reputation at Enfield Wash, and on being asked to identify the woman who had cut off her stays, and locked her up in the room referred to, pointed out one Mary Squires, an old gipsy of surpassing ugliness. Accordingly, Squires and Wells were committed for trial for assault and felony; the result of the trial being that Squires was condemned to death, and Wells to be burned in the hand, a sentence which was executed forthwith, much to the delight of the excited crowd in the Old Bailey Sessions-house. But the Lord Mayor, Sir Crisp Gascoyne, who had presided at the trial ex-officio, was not satisfied with the verdict, and caused further and searching inquiries to be made. The verdict, on the weight of fresh evidence obtained, was upset, and Squires was granted a free pardon. On 29th April, 1754, Elizabeth Canning was summoned again to the Old Bailey, but this time to take her trial for wilful and corrupt perjury. The trial lasted eight days, and, being found guilty, she was transported in August, "at the request of her friends, to New England." According to the "Annual Register," she returned to this country at the expiration of her sentence to receive a legacy of £500, left to her three years before by an old lady of Newington Green; whereas, later accounts affirm that she never came back, but died 22nd July, 1773, at Weathersfield, in Connecticut, it being further stated that she married abroad a Quaker of the name of Treat, "and for some time followed the occupation of a schoolmistress." The mystery of her life—her disappearance from Jan. 1st to the 29th of that month, and what transpired in that interval—is a secret that has never been to this day divulged. Indeed, as it has been observed, "notwithstanding the many strange circumstances of her story, none is so strange as that it should not be discovered in so many years where she had concealed herself during the time she had invariably declared she was at the house of Mother Wells."[48] Another curious disappearance is recorded by Sir John Coleridge, forming a strange story of romance. It seems there lived in Cornwall, a highly respectable family, named Robinson, consisting of two sons—William and Nicholas—and two daughters. The property was settled on the two sons and their male issue, and in case of death on the two daughters. Nicholas was placed with an eminent attorney of St. Austen as his clerk, with a prospect of being one day admitted into partnership. But his legal studies were somewhat interrupted by his falling in love with a milliner's apprentice; the result being that he was sent to London to qualify himself as an attorney. But he had no sooner been admitted an attorney of the Queen's Bench and Common Pleas than he disappeared, and thenceforward he was never seen by any member of his family or former friends, all search for him proving fruitless. In course of time the father died, and William, the elder son, succeeded to the property, dying unmarried in May, 1802. As nothing was heard of Nicholas, the two sisters became entitled to the property, of which they held possession for twenty years, no claim being made to disturb their possession of it. But in the year 1783, a young man, whose looks and manners were above his means and situation, had made his appearance as a stranger at Liverpool, going by the name of Nathaniel Richardson—the same initials as Nicholas Robinson. He bought a cab and horse, and plied for hire in the streets of Liverpool—and being "a civil, sober, and prudent man," he soon became prosperous, and drove a coach between London and Liverpool. He married, had children, and gradually acquired considerable wealth. Having gone to Wales, however, in the year 1802, to purchase some horses, he was accidentally drowned in the Mersey. Many years after his death, it was rumoured in 1821 that this Nathaniel Richardson was no other than Nicholas Robinson, and his eldest son claimed the property, which was then inherited by the two daughters. An action was accordingly tried in Cornwall to recover the property. The strange part of the proceedings was that nearly forty years had elapsed since anyone had seen Nicholas Robinson; but, says Sir John Coleridge, "It was made out conclusively, in a most remarkable way, and by a variety of small circumstances, all pointing to one conclusion, that Nathaniel Richardson was the identical Nicholas Robinson". The Cornish and Liverpool witnesses agreed in the description of his person, his height, the colour of his hair, his general appearance, and, more particularly, it was mentioned that he had a peculiar habit of biting his nails, and that he had a great fondness for horses. In addition to other circumstances, there was this remarkable one—that Nathaniel's widow married again and that the furniture and effects were taken to the second husband's house. Among the articles, was an old trunk, which she had never seen opened; but, on its contents being examined one day, among other letters and papers, were found the two certificates of Nicholas Robinson's admission as Attorney to the Courts of Queen's Bench and Common Pleas—and, on the trial, the old master of Nicholas Robinson, alias Nathaniel Richardson, swore to his handwriting, and so the property was discovered. It has been often remarked that London is about the only place in all Europe where a man, if so desirous, can disappear and live for years unknown in some secure retreat. About the year 1706, a certain Mr. Howe, after he had been married some seven or eight years, rose early one morning, and informed his wife that he was obliged to go to the Tower on special business, and at about noon the same day he sent a note to his wife informing her that business summoned him to Holland, where he would probably have to remain three weeks or a month. But from that day he was absent from his home for seventeen years, during which time his wife neither heard from him, nor of him. His strange and unaccountable disappearance at the time naturally created comment, but no trace could be found of his whereabouts, or as to whether he had met with foul treatment. And yet the most curious part of the story remains to be told. On leaving his house in Jermyn Street, Piccadilly, Mr. Howe went no further than to a small street in Westminster, where he took a room, for which he paid five or six shillings a week, and changing his name, and disguising himself by wearing a black wig—for he was a fair man—he remained in this locality during the whole time of his absence. At the time he disappeared from his home, Mr. Howe had had two children by his wife, but these both died a few years afterwards. But, being left without the necessary means of subsistence, Mrs. Howe, after waiting two or three years in the hope of her husband's return, was forced to apply for an Act of Parliament to procure an adequate settlement of his estate, and a provision for herself out of it during his absence, as it was uncertain whether he was alive or dead. This act Mr. Howe suffered to be passed, and read the progress of it in a little coffee-house which he frequented. After the death of her children, Mrs. Howe removed from her house in Jermyn Street to a smaller one in Brewer Street, near Golden Square. Just over against her lived one Salt, a corn chandler, with whom Mr. Howe became acquainted, usually dining with him once or twice a week. The room where they sat overlooked Mrs. Howe's dining room, and Salt, believing Howe to be a bachelor, oftentimes recommended her to him as a suitable wife. And, curious to add, during the last seven years of his mysterious absence, Mr. Howe attended every Sunday service at St. James's Church, Piccadilly, and sat in Mr. Salt's seat, where he had a good view of his wife, although he could not be easily seen by her. At last, however, Mr. Howe made up his mind to return home, and the evening before he took this step, sent her an anonymous note requesting her to meet him the following day in Birdcage Walk, St. James's Square. At the time this billet arrived, Mrs. Howe was entertaining some friends and relatives at supper—one of her guests being a Dr. Rose, who had married her sister. After reading the note, Mrs. Howe tossed it to Dr. Rose, laughingly remarking, "You see, brother, old as I am, I have got a gallant." But Dr. Rose recognised the handwriting as that of Mr. Howe, which so upset Mrs. Howe that she fainted away. It was eventually arranged that Dr. Rose and his wife, with the other guests who were then at supper, should accompany Mrs. Howe the following evening to the appointed spot. They had not long to wait before Mr. Howe appeared, who, after embracing his wife, walked home with her in the most matter-of-fact manner, the two living together in the most happy and harmonious manner till death divided them. The reason of this mysterious disappearance, Mr. Howe would never explain, but Dr. Rose often maintained that he believed his brother would never have returned to his wife had not the money which he took with him—supposed to have been from one to two thousand pounds—been all spent. "Anyhow," he used to add, "Mr. Howe must have been a good economist, and frugal in his manner of living, otherwise the money would scarce have held out." A romance associated with Haigh Hall, in Lancashire, tells how Sir William Bradshaigh, stimulated by his love of travel and military ardour, set out for the Holy land. Ten years elapsed, and, as no tidings reached his wife of his whereabouts, it was generally supposed that he had perished in some religious crusade. Taking it for granted, therefore, that he was dead, his wife Mabel did not abandon herself to a life of solitary widowhood, but accepted an offer of marriage from a Welsh knight. But, not very long afterwards, Sir William Bradshaigh returned from his prolonged sojourn in the Holy land, and, disguised as a palmer, he visited his own castle, where he took his place amongst the recipients of Lady Mabel's bounty. As soon, however, as Lady Mabel caught sight of the palmer, she was struck by the strong resemblance he bore to her first husband; and this impression was quickly followed by bewilderment when the mysterious stranger handed to her a ring which he affirmed had been given him by Sir William, in his dying moments, to bear to his wife at Haigh Hall. In a moment Lady Mabel's thoughts travelled back into the distant past, and she burst into tears as the ring brought back the dear memories of bygone days. It was in vain she tried to stifle her feelings, and, as her second husband—the Welsh Knight—looked on and saw how distressed she was, "he grew," says the old record, "exceeding wroth," and, in a fit of jealous passion, struck Lady Mabel. This ungallant act was the climax of the painful scene, for there and then Sir William threw aside his disguise, and hastened to revenge the unchivalrous conduct of the Welsh knight. Completely confounded at this unexpected turn of events, and fearing violence from Sir William, the Welsh knight rode off at full speed, without waiting for any explanation of the matter. But he was overtaken very speedily and slain by his opponent, an offence for which Sir William was outlawed for a year and a day; while Mabel, his wife, "was enjoined by her confessor to do penance by going once every week, barefoot and bare legged, to a cross near Wigan, popularly known as Mab's Cross.[49] In Wigan Parish Church, two figures of whitewashed stone preserve the memory of Sir William Bradshaigh and his Lady Mabel, he in an antique coat of mail, cross-legged, with his sword, partly drawn from the scabbard, by his left side, and she in a long robe, veiled, her hands elevated and conjoined in the attitude of fervent prayer. Sir Walter Scott informs us that from this romance he adopted his idea of "The Betrothed," "from the edition preserved in the mansion of Haigh Hall, of old the mansion house of the family of Bradshaigh, now possessed by their descendants on the female side, the Earls of Balcarres."[50] <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG border="0" src="images/imagep248.jpg" width-obs="700" height-obs="453" alt="Lady Mabel and the Palmer." /> Lady Mabel and the Palmer. ToList </div> Scottish tradition ascribes to the Clan of Tweedie a descent of a similar romantic nature. A baron, somewhat elderly, had wedded a buxom young wife, but some months after their union he left her to ply the distaff among the mountains of the county of Peebles, near the sources of the Tweed. After being absent seven or eight years—no uncommon space for a pilgrimage to Palestine—he returned, and found, to quote the account given by Sir Walter Scott, "his family had not been lonely in his absence, the lady having been cheered by the arrival of a stranger who hung on her skirts and called her mammy, and was just such as the baron would have longed to call his son, but that he could by no means make his age correspond with his own departure for Palestine. He applied, therefore, to his wife for the solution of the dilemma, who, after many floods of tears, informed her husband that, walking one day along the banks of the river, a human form arose from a deep eddy, termed Tweed-pool, who deigned to inform her that he was the tutelar genius of the stream, and he became the father of the sturdy fellow whose appearance had so much surprised her husband." After listening to this strange adventure, "the husband believed, or seemed to believe, the tale, and remained contented with the child with whom his wife and the Tweed had generously presented him. The only circumstance which preserved the memory of the incident was that the youth retained the name of Tweed or Tweedie." Having bred up the young Tweed as his heir while he lived, the baron left him in that capacity when he died, "and the son of the river-god founded the family of Drummelzier and others, from whom have flowed, in the phrase of the Ettrick shepherd, 'many a brave fellow, and many a bauld feat.'" It may be added that, in some instances, the science of the medical jurist has aided in elucidating the history of disappearances, through identifying the discovered remains with the presumed missing subjects. Some years ago, the examination of a skeleton found deeply imbedded in the sand of the sea-coast at a certain Scotch watering-place showed that the person when living must have walked with a very peculiar and characteristic gait, in consequence of some deposits of a rheumatic kind which affected the lower part of the spine. The mention of this circumstance caused a search to be made through some old records of the town, and resulted in the discovery of a mysterious disappearance, which, at the time, had been duly noted—the subject being a person whose mode of walking had made him an object of attention, and whose fate, but for the observant eye of the anatomist, must have remained wholly unknown. Similarly, it has been pointed out how skeletons found in mines, in disused wells, in quarries, in the walls of ruins, and various other localities "imply so many social mysteries which probably occasioned in their day a wide-spread excitement, or at least agitated profoundly some small circle of relatives or friends." According to the "Annual Register" (1845, p. 195), while some men were being employed in taking the soil from the bottom of the river in front of some mills a human skeleton was accidentally found. At a coroner's inquest, it transpired that about nine years before a Jew whose name was said to be Abrams, visited Taverham in the course of his business, sold some small articles for which he gave credit to the purchasers, and left the neighbourhood on his way to Drayton, the next village, with a sum of £90 in his possession. But at Drayton he disappeared, and never returned to Taverham to claim the amount due to him. Search was made for the missing man, but to no purpose, and after the excitement in the neighbourhood had abated, the matter was soon forgotten. But some time afterwards a man named Page was apprehended for sheep stealing, tried, and sentenced to be transported for life. During his imprisonment, he told divers stories of robberies and crimes, most of which turned out to be false. But, amongst other things, he wrote a letter promising that if he were released from gaol and brought to Cossey, "he would show them that, from under the willow tree, which would make every hair in their heads rise up." The man was not released, but the river was drawn, and some sheep's skins and sheep's heads were found, which were considered to be the objects alluded to by Page. The search, however, was still pursued, and from under the willow tree the skeleton was fished up, evidently having been fastened down. It was generally supposed that these were the bones of the long lost Jew, who, no doubt, had been murdered for the money on his person—a crime of which Page was aware, if he were not an accomplice. <h4>FOOTNOTES:</h4> <div class="footnote">[47] See "Romantic Records of the Aristocracy," 1850, I., 83-87. </div> <div class="footnote">[48] See "Dict. of Nat. Biog.," VIII., 418-420; Caulfield's "Remarkable Persons," and Gent. Mag., 1753 and 1754. </div> <div class="footnote">[49] Sir B. Burke's "Vicissitudes of Families," first series, 270-273. Harland's "Lancashire Legends," 45-47. Roby's "Traditions of Lancashire." </div> <div class="footnote">[50] The tale of the noble Moringer is, in some respects, almost identical with this tradition. It exists in a collection of German popular songs, and is supposed to be extracted from a manuscript "Chronicle of Nicholas Thomann, Chaplain to St. Leonard in Weissenhorn," and dated 1533. </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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